Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

A memory surfaced—the wardship shield disintegrating after Merritt knocked on it. Before that she’d been telling him about Mr. Hogwood. Wardship was a protective discipline, and if Merritt had been feeling protective . . .

He pointed me in the right direction . . . He said, ‘She,’ like he was referring to a woman. To you . . . He pointed, I suppose. But without pointing.

Hulda’s body went so slack her bag dropped to the floor.

It couldn’t be . . . Merritt . . . could it?

She had to know. The urge to know burned within her like a blacksmith had hooked bellows to her lungs and shoved iron down her throat. Securing her bag, Hulda rushed for the stairs, essentially tripping over them, her feet moved so quickly.

Sadie Steverus called out after her, but Hulda had her own research to perform.

Mr. Gifford stood from his desk as Hulda swept into the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic’s office, her skirt inches from getting caught in the closing door.

“Miss Larkin! How are you to—”

“I need to see your records immediately. I do not require an escort. It’s BIKER business. Do I need to fill anything out before I go down?”

The man choked on his words. “N-No, let me just write down your name—”

She sped past him, grabbing a lantern and taking the winding stairs down to the basement library. She managed to get it lit before touching down on the main floor. The smells of mildew and old parchment wafted over her like the tide. She wove through shelves until she found the box that would contain records for the surname Fernsby. Grabbing it, she found the same table she’d used before and set to work.

The file was larger than the Mansel one had been, and after spreading it out on the table, she took a full five minutes to find his name. Merritt Fernsby, listed second under Peter Fernsby and Rose Fernsby. He had two sisters—the elder was named Scarlet and the younger Beatrice. Her heart panged reading the names of family who had left him behind—family he avoided speaking of—but ravelment overtook her as she scanned up the family line.

No magic notes. No estimates or wizarding markers of any kind.

She leaned back, confounded. If not Merritt, then what—

Why don’t I help you with your self-righteous tirade, eh? I’m a bastard, too! An unemployed, sex-mongering, unmagical bastard.

“Bastard,” she repeated, that pang hitting harder this time as his self-deprecating anger pushed to the front of her memory, still fresh, still stinging. If Merritt was a bastard, then this lineage wouldn’t be correct . . .

She paused. She hadn’t unpacked yet. Reaching down, she shuffled through her black bag until she found the BIKER file on Whimbrel House. The file that included the short list of past inhabitants.

She spread it out. Found the name of the previous owner, Anita Nichols—Merritt’s maternal grandmother, if she remembered right. She had apparently won the house and land in a game of chance, from Mr. Nelson Sutcliffe, who’d inherited it from his father, who’d taken it from his brother. None had ever inhabited it.

Hulda knocked over her chair in her hurry to get to the shelves, then retrieved the Mansel file and brought it over. She spread it on top of the Fernsby file. Found Horace and Evelyn and their daughters—Owein’s sisters. She traced their lines down until . . .

There! There was a Mary Mansel in Crisly’s line that married a Johnson, and her third daughter married a Sutcliffe! The families were connected.

She chewed on her lip. Pondered. Grabbed her lantern and ventured upstairs.

“Mr. Gifford,” she said to the frazzled clerk, “is there a means to look up genealogical records by location?”

“Um. Yes, there is . . . Allow me.” He set a few papers straight and escorted her back into the dark, taking up a lantern of his own. He led her deeper into the basement, to another set of shelves. “These are by location. Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Hulda snapped her fingers, trying to think of it. Merritt’s birthplace hadn’t been included in the Whimbrel House file, but Mr. Portendorfer had mentioned it before. “New York. New York . . . Cow, no, that’s not it. Cattle something . . .”

“Cattlecorn?” Mr. Gifford supplied.

“Yes! Yes, Cattlecorn.”

He passed by a few shelves, then took his time studying the different files, leaving Hulda to force patience into restless limbs. When he finally pulled a bin free, Hulda snatched it, rushed a thank-you, and hauled it over to her table.

She opened up the files to the newest entries. “Sutcliffe,” she murmured, drawing her finger down. “Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe . . .”