Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Sutcliffe, Nelson. No magic markers, though his grandfather had W10 written on his name, and a great-uncle had Co12. There was a smattering of other magic markers going up the line.

So Nelson Sutcliffe lived in Cattlecorn and had the magic markers Hulda was searching for . . . If this man was Merritt’s biological father, then it was Merritt causing those spells. He must have used communion to find her the night of the attack! She laughed, disbelieving. All this time, Merritt had been adding to the enchantments . . .

And he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Oh dear.” She fished out her communion stone.

“Miss Larkin?”

She jumped. “Oh, Mr. Gifford. I forgot you were here.”

He glanced to the mess she’d made on the table. “Can I help you sort anything?”

“I . . . No. But I need to make some copies. Please.”

He nodded. “I’ll get you a pencil and paper.”

She waited for him and his lantern to vanish up the stairs, then activated the selenite. “Merritt?” she asked. “Merritt, I’ve found something very important.”

She paused, the stone heavy in her hands. If this was all true . . . Merritt was related to Owein. She’d trace that line in just a moment.

No answer.

“Merritt, it’s Hulda. I know you’re angry, but I need to speak with you! It’s about the house. About Owein, and you.”

No answer.

“Impertinent man,” she mumbled. She’d make her copies and try again. If he still didn’t answer, well . . . she’d go back to Blaugdone Island herself and make him.

If nothing else, she needed the exercise.

Merritt sat at the head of the dining room table, the room dimly lit with a smattering of candles, the shutters drawn closed against the twilight. He slouched in his chair and propped his forehead halfheartedly on his palm. Both elbows were firmly planted on the table, but this was his house. He could put his joints wherever he wanted.

He felt Beth and Baptiste watching him as he speared and respeared a pea with his fork, over and over until it resembled a shucked oyster, then moved on to mutilating another. He never did manage to take that nap. His body felt heavy yet hollow, his brain fuzzy, his innards numb. But numb was good. He tried very hard not to think about anything, as thoughts disrupted apathy. He was weary of thinking, besides. Perhaps, if he never slept, he would never think. Wouldn’t that be something?

He was beginning to regret the lack of liquor in the house.

Beth murmured, “I’ll take your plate.”

Merritt glanced up, though she’d been addressing Baptiste. Both he and the maid had finished their dinner. Merritt’s was growing cold and being slowly massacred by silver prongs.

Sighing, he set the weapon down. “I’m sorry, Baptiste. It’s nothing you’ve done. In truth, meat pies are my favorite food.”

Baptiste frowned. “I know.”

Merritt perked a little. “You do?” He couldn’t remember mentioning it.

The cook shifted an uneasy glance to Beth. “Er . . . the menu is Mrs. Larkin’s task. She chose it.”

Merritt wilted. “Oh.” So much for apathy. A bitter screw began twisting its way up his middle. He stared at the golden-brown crust before him. Picked up his fork and attacked it, but couldn’t bring himself to eat.

Perhaps tomorrow Baptiste would make soup so Merritt could drown himself in it. Though he really should eat something. He’d only feel worse if he didn’t. Lifting a tiny morsel to his lips, he chewed, barely registering the flavor.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Beth said, “I’ve some chamomile tea, if you’d like.”

Ah, chamomile. Calming, sleepy chamomile. “As strong as you can manage it, please. Thank you.”

Beth nodded and walked toward the kitchen, but came to a sudden halt after three steps. Turned back to Merritt—no, the window.

Merritt sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Beth pursed her lips. “I sense something. Something bad—”

The glass shattered, raining shards over Merritt’s head and back, blowing out half the candles.

Beth screamed.

“Get down!” Merritt shouted, dropping from his chair and slipping under the table. An earthquake? But the ground wasn’t moving—

The table jerked; a thick something slammed against the far wall, followed by a deep grunt. Heart in his throat, Merritt crawled under the table to see Baptiste slumped against the far wall, a streak of blood leading to his head.

“Baptiste!” Merritt dove for the man, but not before a giant, unseen hand wrapped around him, turning him about.

A shadowy figure stood in the dining room, a black cloak billowing around him, a high, white collar pressed against his face. He was a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair swept to one side. Long sideburns marked his cheeks.

And there was a dog, some sort of terrier, on a leash beside him, whimpering.

“Mr. Fernsby, we have not been properly introduced,” he said in an English accent.

Beth, standing from the ground, said, “You’re Silas Hogwood.”

Merritt’s stomach sank.

The Englishman growled. “And you are a pain in my side.”