Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

And there was Miss Steverus’s interruption the other day. I just received a notice from Mr. Maurice Watson. He wants an appointment today.

Hulda had augured premonitions about a wolf on Blaugdone Island and at BIKER. And with an alteration spell, any wizard could take a beastly form.

Hulda was talking about Silas Hogwood.

But so was Myra.

Merritt . . . Merritt had always been the target.

Hulda backstepped. “You knew.” Her hand went to her chest. “You knew the whole time that Silas Hogwood was alive. That he was here. That’s why you tried so hard to assure me otherwise.”

Myra paled. “It’s not what you think—”

“How is this not what I think?” Hulda was shouting now. “You . . . You traitor!”

Myra rushed for the door and slammed it closed. “Keep your voice down.”

Hulda’s tone darkened as the shadows when she said, “Tell me one reason why I should.”

“I had nothing to do with your attack,” she hissed, but her energy puffed away, leaving her face drawn and shoulders slouched. “I was sick, Hulda.”

Hulda gaped. “What do you mean . . .” She paused. “That was years ago, Myra.”

Myra nodded. “I know. But it wasn’t simply a passing illness. I didn’t want to tell you, or Sadie, or anyone.” She kneaded her hands. “But I was sick, and Mr. Hogwood is a powerful necromancer.”

Hulda’s breath caught. “He healed you.”

Myra nodded. “I bartered with him. I would help break him out of jail, out of England, in exchange for the cure.”

“You helped him.” She felt light-headed. “You used your powers . . . BIKER . . . to falsify those records.”

Myra waved the accusation away. “I knew he would keep his word. I read his thoughts. He was trustworthy.”

Hulda closed the space between them and grabbed Myra’s shoulders. “He. Is. A. Murderer!”

Myra tugged free. “Because of him, I survived. And so did BIKER.” She looked away. Rubbed a chill from her arms.

“Tell me everything,” Hulda pressed. “I can’t read your mind, Myra. Tell me, or else I’ll—”

“Don’t.” She cut off the threat. “Don’t.” Rubbing her temples, Myra paced the length of the room and back.

Hulda stamped her foot. “I do not have time for this. Merritt is in danger. I’ll never forgive you if he dies. I will never—”

“New favors came up,” Myra croaked. “My sister got sick, too. A friend of mine, her husband was a drunk . . . She needed wardship to protect herself. I knew Maurice—Silas—could do it all. I knew he would always hold up his end of the bargain. He’s a man of his word.”

Hulda scoffed.

“So I went back to him a few times. Always in exchange for something. A new identity, new papers . . . and BIKER was on the brink of ruin.”

Hulda pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “You never said anything.”

“We were losing funding. Magical houses are increasingly rare, especially in the States. Silas agreed to travel around and infuse high-potential dwellings with spells so we could stay in business. So you could stay here.”

Hulda slapped her glasses back on. “Do not pretend you did this for me.”

Myra waned. “For his next payment, he wanted Whimbrel House. I don’t know how he knew about it. He must have read my mind, or dove into our records.”

Now Hulda paced. “Why?”

“It has magic he wants.”

She whirled on the director. “So you knew he was back at it again. You knew he was taking magic.”

“From a house, Hulda!”

“From Merritt!” she countered. “From me!”

“You were supposed to leave!” Myra screamed, voice echoing. Both of them froze from the outburst for several seconds. Regaining composure, Myra said, “Why do you think I tried so hard to pull you from that house? I refused to sign it over until I could make sure you were safe! He even tried to purchase it!”

“And a bloody good job you did! However trustworthy you might think that . . . that criminal is, he is a selfish, power-lusting horror that you unleashed on us!”

Tears brimmed Myra’s eyes. She sank to her bed. “I know,” she whispered, weeping. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me where he is. You owe me that.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Tell me where he is,” she pressed. “Surely you weren’t so naïve as to help him without plucking that information from his mind.”

Myra cradled her head. Sniffed.

Hulda crouched before her again. “Myra. I am running out of time.”

“Marshfield,” she whispered. “He’s outside of Marshfield in a rundown house with a gambrel roof.”

An image pushed its way into Hulda’s mind—an image Myra had no doubt stolen from Mr. Hogwood. Hulda saw the dilapidated three-story house clearly, the large oak tree outside it, the surrounding fields.

She could find it.

“If you care for my life at all, you’ll wake the city watch and send them,” she said. “Because I am going. And I’m taking your horse.”

Standing, Hulda snatched her lantern and hurried from the room, not leaving so much as an ounce of gratitude in her wake.

Chapter 31

October 15, 1846, Marshfield, Massachusetts